


whisper on the night wind

by plinys



Series: ABC Fic Challenge [24]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 5 Times, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 15:15:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5253029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys/pseuds/plinys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We never finished our conversation, sir.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	whisper on the night wind

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I'm writing fic about old dead politicans, someone please save me.
> 
> Also fits my abc fic challenge, for the word "xenial"

1

The first time it happens, they’re young and drunk and it feels like a fluke.

The man, he’d met barely hours before, showing up in the dead of night. When he opens the door of his apartment, if only to stop the incessant knocked upon it, he’s greeted with the sight of Hamilton looking just a significantly more sober than he had looked when Burr had last seen him. He had left him in the company of a more rebellious lot, content that the other man would find new friends and leave him be.

Luck was apparently not in his favor.

“Aaron Burr, sir.”

The words, “What are you doing here,” come off a bit more abrasive than he intends, but it’s far too late for company.

Hamilton doesn’t seem to notice the tone, nor the time of night, because he invites himself inside Burr’s apartment. “We never finished our conversation, sir.”

“Pardon, what conversation was that?” The whole night was a bit fuzzy. He’d met Hamilton, they’d gone off to the bar, he’d ran into that group of wannabe rebels, and then there’d been more drinks. Burr remembered being insulted quite clearly, then taking his leave and heading back to his apartment. If Hamilton was here to start insulting him again then, manners be damned, Burr wouldn’t feel bad kicking him right back out.

“At the bar, we were talking about academic course work and financial retribution and-“

“Can this not wait until the morning,” Burr cuts him off. Clearly his advice to _talk less_ had not made a solid enough impact on Hamilton. Somehow he doubted stressing the point now would make any difference.

“I cannot sleep,” Hamilton explains. “I have a number of points to make, and I worry if I sleep before making them that I might forget or the moment may have passed.”

He squints at the other man, still lingering just inside his doorway, with a torn look on his face. Perhaps a few hours less of sleep won’t make that much of a difference.

“I will put on a kettle.”

 

 

2

It’s rare that they’re in camp at the same time.

What with Burr enjoying his recent promotion to lieutenant colonel, and Hamilton serving as Washington’s right hand – but of course, the one time they’re both in the same place Hamilton would find a way to invade his space.

He’s still up this time, looking over maps for where he and his men will be heading in the morning. The upcoming battle weighing far too heavy on his mind, such that he cannot ignore it even in the bliss of a nights rest.

This time, there is not a knock at the door that disturbs him, but rather the sound of someone brushing the folds of his tent inviting himself in without asking.

“Aaron Burr, sir.”

“Does the General need to speak with me?”

This isn’t the first time Hamilton has invited himself into Burr’s tent without asking. And yet each time, he foolishly hoped that there would be some sort of news coming with the other man’s appearance.

For that would be the logical explanation for Hamilton barging in. Though when has he ever known Hamilton to be logical?

“No, sir. I simply wished to converse with you, it has been a while since we’ve last spoken to each other. Are you busy?”

There’s something familiar about that tone, a note to it which makes a simple request so much more than that. As much as he would like to turn Hamilton away and go back to his maps, there’s really no more he can look at.

“I suppose I could take a break.”

 

 

3

“Alexander.”

“Aaron Burr, sir.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“Can we confer, sir?”

“Is it a legal matter?”

“Yes, and it’s important to me.”

 

 

4

Despite disagreeing on nearly everything, they somehow manage to be almost _friends_.

Burr isn’t exactly certain how that happened.

Though it was Hamilton himself who used the term first.

At this point, Burr’s stopped keeping track of the number of times Hamilton’s shown up at his door. Just as he’s given up trying to say _no_ the instant he hears a chipper, “ _Aaron Burr, sir_ ,” and instead keeps a kettle ready to warm up just in case Hamilton decides to stop by for one of his nightly visits.

“I might actually kill Jefferson,” Hamilton says, in that faux dramatic tone that he employs far too often for anyone to actually believe. He’s draped himself across one of Burr’s couches, the cup of tea somehow balanced chest though it looks as though any sudden movement could knock it over. “You would defend me if I killed Jefferson, would you not?”

Saying, “No, I would not,” just to rile Hamilton up more is almost too easy.

He’s rewarded with an appropriately scandalized look. “I thought we were friends, Burr.”

“A friend would let me retire to bed with my wife, rather than listen to your useless chattering.”

“You say that as though you mind my company?”

“I do,” Burr insists.

Hamilton just gives him a light, almost dismissively laugh in return. Before picking up his rants about the Secretary of State as though their brief intermission had never occurred.

 

 

5

“We never finished our conversation, _senator_ ,” the word sounds like a slur as it comes off Hamilton’s lips.

The betrayal in his features is far clearer now than it had been when Hamilton approached him in the streets. Accusing him of switching parties to purely spit the other man – as though Burr were so shallow.

Perhaps Hamilton would do such a thing, but Burr had higher aims than petty disagreements than acquaintances. If they could even be considered that now?

“You’re drunk,” Burr points out. Still guarding the doorway, unwilling to let the other man into his home in that state. “Go home, Alexander.”

“Aaron Burr, sir.” Hamilton replies, as though it’s a reflex, before adding. “You’re a real dick, you know that?”

Part of Burr wonders if Hamilton will even remember this in the morning. If it’s even worth expanding the effort to try and explain the situation to him. One more glance at Hamilton, slightly rumpled, and still angry is enough to get Burr to give up the fight before it even gets properly started.

“I am closing the door, it is much too late to call on someone. If you wish to speak to me you will simply have to return in the morning.”

Before Hamilton can reply, because Burr can see the reply forming in an instant, those bright eyes turning angrier while his mouth opens in indignation, he closes the door just as he had said he would. There’s a moments pause, before muffled angry words. Too many and too fast for Burr to have even tried to understand.

Walking away would be the smart idea, but he doesn’t. Not until the muffled rant has finished, until footsteps are heard stomping away from his porch. He doesn’t think about it at the time, and not for much long after, but Hamilton never stops by for a midnight cup of tea after that.

 

 

\+ 1

There’s a knock at the door, so late at night that it can only be one thing, there’s only _one_ person that knocks this late. Even though it’s been years since the last time, Burr knows with certainty what that knock must mean.

He slips on his robe slowly, before heading down the stairs, each step soft and careful. He’s getting too old for this, they both are, he makes a mental note to lead with that point as he tugs the door open.

Only there’s no one on the other side.

Just an empty porch and the rustling of the wind.

“Where did he…”

The words die on his lips, because then the fog of the late night lifts and it all comes back to him so clearly. No, Hamilton wouldn’t be standing on his porch. He wouldn’t be standing anywhere.

Never again will he hear a cheerful _“Aaron Burr, sir_ ,” before his home is invaded, by a man that he never called a friend, but never called an enemy either for all their disagreements.

Never again would they argue, intellects clashing over a cup of tea or a courtroom floor.

Never again would-

“Papa.” It’s Theodosia’s voice that breaks him out of his reprieve.  The soft and concerned tone that reminds him so much of her mother. “Is something the matter? Is someone there?”

“It’s nothing, dearest, simply the wind.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
